


hematoma

by flying_siphonophore



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Sugar Daddy, Supernatural Elements, Yearning, Yes you read that right, no beta we die like men, vampire sugar daddy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26476078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flying_siphonophore/pseuds/flying_siphonophore
Summary: it swells and hurts and before you know it--it bruises.
Relationships: Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/Reader, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/You
Kudos: 11





	hematoma

**Author's Note:**

> its 3am and i've decided to post this when i probably shouldn't. i have no idea where this story will go, or how it will turn out. frankly, there is no plan. i just wanted to write sexy vampire Kylo Ren, so here you have it.

He's on your stoop.

You had turned your back for a second to hip check your front door open once more for the heavy bag of clothes you intend to donate, and when you face the steps again to drag it off your porch and down your sidewalk to your car parked on the street, he's suddenly just...there.

You pause, both hands wound around the knot you'd tied at the top of the bag, shoulders hunched from its weight. Under the flickering bare bulb that lights up your measly front yard, his always-tired eyes appear clearer, sharper, and stare back at you unflinchingly.

“Oh hey.” You’re trying to appear casual, but it’s always creepy when he just sort of...shows up. He’s dressed impeccably well, and there’s not a single speck of dust on his shoes, but there’s also no sign of a car that could be his--just yours and your neighbors’. He sure as hell didn’t walk here.

He leans a hip against the flaking railing of your porch steps, fiddling with the large ring that rests on his finger. “Is now a good time?”

The front door creaks as it bumps back against the bag, pinning it against the door frame. With a sniff, you stand upright, and jostle the plastic. “If you carry this out to my car for me, sure.” You wouldn’t have told him no anyway.

The old stairs groan under his weight, bringing all of his massive height up to you. Your head tilts back, and he gazes down at you when he presses in close, leaning into your space to slip his cold fingers over your knuckles, twisting the top of the bag out of your grasp and lifting it with ease where you had struggled. He steps back out into the blaring light, broad shoulders squeezed into a well-fitted suit jacket, walking carelessly across the grass to your car parked on the street.

Your heart races, and you lean back into the wall, fumbling with your fob. Lights flick on inside your beat up car, just beyond the full strength of your yard light and dipped in the beginnings of street shadows.

It’s not that you don’t like Ben. He’s always polite and respectful, even in the face of your strange arrangement. It’s the predatory nature of him, the alarms that he sets off in some animal part of your brain that tells you he’s not a safe being to have in your company. The fact he exists  _ at all _ should have had you running for the hills. And you stupidly ignore that along with every other worrying aspect of your business with him for the absolute load of cash he brings with him every time he comes over.

Your car door slams shut, and when Ben turns around, his eyes reflect like a cat’s in the dark--hazy silvery orbs coming from a shadow-darkened face that belies his less than human nature. You freeze where you lean against your house, swallowing thickly. His steps are steady, carrying him back, but those eyes don’t blink or look away.

It’s like an icy grip releases you when the light stops catching deep in his pupils, returning them to their deceptively human state.

"Are you going to lock your car?" His eyebrow rises.

"O-oh, uh--" From the street, your car whines and the lights flash.

With a limp gesture towards your house, he follows you inside. The door shuts with a click, and all your hairs stand on end with Ben’s massive presence behind you--dangerous and alone in your tiny home. His nice dress shoes click after your bare feet.

The floorboards creak as you bring him into your tiny living room, the furthest into your home he’s ever been in the year you’ve known him. Soft music that you’d started listening to long before his arrival still plays from the speaker of your phone on the coffee table, and you plop down awkwardly on your grandmother’s couch, springs bouncing beneath you.

Ben sits stiffly, on the edge, like he’s ready to bolt at the first sign of protest. Even though this arrangement has been going on for almost a year now, he’s never grown more relaxed with you, and you don’t know if you should be offended or not. You certainly aren't terribly relaxed around him. You wonder what Ben Solo is like without his stiff as a board posture and neutral features, if that version of Ben Solo even exists. The only time you see his mask break is...during...briefly after...before he regains himself.

Your throat already feels warm with a blush. There’s no helping your reaction, and you twitch your hand away from your neck when it rises thoughtlessly to flutter over your skin. It’s always intimate for you, even if it’s  _ really just fucking business _ . How can it not be? You imagine this isn’t the first or only kind of arrangement that Ben has like this, it can’t be if lore is to be believed, but he’s certainly the only person you know that needs what you provide for him.

His dark eyes linger over your face, follow your hand to your fingers touching your racing pulse, but not all the way down to where they twist in your lap. You shift a little closer, like some middle schooler trying to score their first kiss, and clear your throat.

Ben’s set gaze lifts to yours. His hands rest curled into fists on his thighs. “Will you fix your hair, please?”

“O-Oh, yeah. Sorry.” You quickly lift your hands to tug your hair tie out, feeling flustered, like you’re keeping Ben waiting even though he showed up on your time. You can’t tell if he’s watching you from the corner of your eye or not in the soft darkness of your living room, but it feels like he is and it has you licking your lips nervously. There’s a dampness at the nape of your neck, one you cringe at as you rake your fingers through it to bring your hair up into a messy but tight bun on top of your skull. You smooth your hands over the sides of your neck, hoping to take any sweat you’d accumulated through your housework and nerves away with your palms.

You meet Ben’s gaze, wiping your hands across your thighs. His eyes are on your neck again, a familiar gleam there, but he doesn’t move. The soft croons of your music float between you, but you hardly register what song is playing. Instead, you softly clear your throat and ask, “Um, everything cool?”

Ben takes a deep breath through his nose, long lashes fluttering when he glances to you and then back down to the only part of your body he’s intimately familiar with.

“Yes. Are you ready?” Those dark eyes find yours, his head dips closer. Like he can’t help himself. The thought makes every nerve in your body flutter anxiously, and you take a deep breath.

You nod, tilting your head against your shoulder furthest from him, exposing the long, beating column of your throat, trying to ignore the swollen flush high in your cheeks.

Your eyes jump out towards the bay window that faces the chain link fence separating your yard from your neighbors. Thankfully, they’ve grown a significant amount of tall shrubbery for privacy’s sake. They, nor anyone, not even you, can see Ben's lips part, how tentative cool fingertips just brushing your dipped temple to guide your throat to his sharpened teeth, or the way he'll bite deeper into your neck than he should be able to for someone who looks so human.

His mouth is always warmer than you expect it to be, but not as hot as a living person’s. It’s almost lukewarm, still cool enough to be unnatural for someone walking and talking. His full lips mold to your pulse, and it rockets with adrenaline even though you’ve done this hundreds of times. You feel self conscious, wondering if he can feel the fast pace of your pulse against his lips. 

Ben sucks on your neck, dragging blood closer to the surface, and it takes everything in your bones to keep yourself from locking up in a shiver of need. It's always slow, like he wants to drag it out and make you feel woozy. His tongue presses to your skin, and each press of his lips makes your heart thud hard in response. Again and again, his lips suck and pull at the ever more sensitive skin of your throat until it warms to a sting and bruises dark--primed hematoma.

You suck in a nervous breath--definitely nervous and not aroused--through parted lips as fangs drag lengthwise with his opening jaw, and hold it as those sharp points catch then prick through your hot skin like two needles. It never hurts as bad as it probably should. Uncomfortable, but not so much that it’s unbearable, and you won’t feel the achy pain that comes with his bite until later as it heals.

You twist your lips and try not to move against the intrusion, try to ignore the way Ben once again sucks at your flesh like a lover does, and the drag of his tongue in his greed to collect your warm lifeforce hidden away beneath your skin before it can breach the seal his wide mouth has created with your skin. The heady brush of a sigh down the back of your neck and in your ear, and the way it elicits goosebumps over your arms, makes your fingers twist stiffly together, eyes squeezing shut.

But something about today has a sharp tremble of pain shooting through your shoulder with the severe stretch of your neck and the intrusion of fangs. Likely from all your bending and standing and sitting on the floor. You grunt, brow furrowing, body moving before you can think, wanting to unwind itself from this jabbing pain it’s suddenly experienced. Your head tilts back towards Ben, whose just barely-there touch to your skin suddenly presses severely into your cheek, the full span of his palm and fingers stretching around the back of your head and past your ear. His other hand snatches one of your wrists, as if you were moving to pull away from him, and you gasp when his jaw tightens where he holds your delicate skin between his teeth

You freeze, flushed cheeks pressed between his iron grasp and his own temple. His ring is bitingly cold against your wrist, grip so tight around it that the tendons connected to your fingers refuse to flex. A rumble vibrates into your neck, one you feel more so than you hear through those twin fangs lodged into your throat, and those goosebumps come back in a shiver when you realize Ben is  _ growling  _ at you.

Your lips part, jaw barely able to open under the almost painful press of his fingers. Again, your shoulder throbs down over your back, winding up quickly and stiffly from your locked position against the vampire. You feel the softness of his tensed angular cheek rub against your own as you speak, your vocal chords rubbing against the jut of his chin into the front of your throat. “I-I’m sorry, I’m not--my shoulder--”

He abruptly slurps away from your neck, swallowing thickly. Hot blood rolls down your decolletage and into your shirt, ruining the fabric. Before you can lift your shaky fingers to your wound, he’s already flicking out a bleached white handkerchief and pressing it over the twin weeping holes. He eyes you with a frown on bloodied lips.

“Did I hurt you?” Ben asks every time, but it’s usually after a longer drinking session and the answer is always no. He doesn’t stick around long enough after to see you rubbing at the tense muscles when the ache sets in around the rapidly healing puncture wounds.

You can’t help but press your smaller fingers over his bigger ones, shaking your head. “I don’t think so. I’ve...I’ve just been moving a lot of heavy stuff today, and maybe I strained my shoulder.” You roll it and wince, feeling the knot forming under your skin already.

You watch his tongue drag over his lips before lifting your gaze to his. Ben’s eyes are narrowed at you, and he casts them around the room thoughtfully. His fingers squeeze around the side of your neck where they continue to hold his ruined handkerchief to your wound, thumb stroking your collarbone almost thoughtlessly. His fingers are long enough to press into that stinging knot, and it all feels heavenly. Your eyelashes flutter, and he makes no move to stop.

Entirely serious, he asks, “Would lying down ease your pain?”

You laugh. He doesn’t. The couch you're sitting on definitely won’t fit a man as tall as he is, and you’re not taking him upstairs to your room. The thought of him in your bed, though, has your blood rushing under your skin, and his gaze flicks over your face.

_ He pays you for this _ , suddenly rockets through your brain.

Dumbly, you say, “M-Maybe?”

You squeak when he hooks an arm around your knees, your body falling back as he drags them up into his lap and lays you out on the cushions of the couch. You stare up at him with wide eyes, and as he leans over you, one hand pressed above your head, cool hand resting on your knee, he pauses.

Ben blinks for the first time since he’s been here. He’s not staring at your neck, or past you, or looking at you but not really--he’s  _ seeing  _ you. Where you lie beneath him, fisted handkerchief pressed to your breasts and oozing wound on display, in a significantly more personal position than politely sitting side by side for the past year has ever been, he is scrutinous.

“Is this acceptable?” He asks, brow furrowing. You hear his fingers drum along the taught fabric of the couch arm above your head.

“Yep,” you reply airily, pressing your thighs together. He’s quite the sight--dark hair framing his scarred and freckled face, sleepy eyes lidded and bloodied lips parted. While he’s always been tall and imposing, having him lean over you and cage you in place makes his size and danger all the more apparent. You do your best not to think about your thighs pressing across his thighs, knees hidden under his suit jacket where it caught as he’d leaned forward.

He says nothing else. Like before, his hand rises from where it was resting on your legs to your cheek. This touch is less a brush of fingers and more a full cupping of your face. You press into it, sighing as you close your eyes and revel in the persistent coolness of his skin. It feels good against the puckering flush of arousal and embarrassment under your own.

Ben’s mouth and fangs take their place again, making you wince. It’s been a while since a feeding has felt so clumsy. The first few times had been scarier, and Ben’s fangs had uncomfortably slid in and out of your skin a handful of times in one sitting as you grew accustomed to the feeling while he graciously backed off every time you asked him to. He was always careful with reinsertion, doing his best to keep the punctures to the same place to avoid excessive bleeding or scarring.

“Not that it should scar you,” he’d assured you in your first meeting. His explanation had been purposefully clinical. “There are pathogens and healing properties in my saliva that excelerate and boost your natural healing abilities. Your good health is not only beneficial to you, but to me as well.”

It’s certainly hard to think about this clinically now, with Ben’s chest pressing into yours and his tongue dragging from collarbone to wound to collect the mess that had been made of you. Your hand quickly moves to avoid having it pinned between you, and even through his suit you can feel the broad planes of muscle moving under his perfectly fit black button up. You will your body not to react to the lazy lap of his tongue, your thin bra no match for the pebbling need of your nipples at the stimulation of simply having a handsome man lying against you like this, holding you close and massaging his mouth against your pulse. Another wave of desire shoots through you, and you lock your ankles together to keep your thighs from trembling--or god forbid wrapping around Ben's waist--focusing on trying to breathe evenly just as your head begins to feel fuzzy.

_ Mm. _

Your eyes blink open as you’d been relaxing, torn from your sheep counting by a sound from the man above you. Ben’s chest presses into yours, and the sound he releases is vastly different than the warning growl he’d given you before. Lower, throaty, less in his chest and more of a cracked sigh from his nose. The moan feels like lightning through your veins, exasperated by his languorous suck against your delicate bleeding skin.

Your hand presses to his side beneath his suit jacket, corded muscles flexing under your touch. You dig your fingers into his flank, heart beat obvious against his deathly still chest.

"B-Ben--" What were you even going to say? You don’t know, as Ben is for the second time this evening sucking his teeth and dripping blood from your punctured skin, stealing the handkerchief from your grip to press it against your bleeding throat, your hand following belatedly. It takes a second to cover the wound, blood making your fingers slip against and between his for a clumsy moment.

A shaky breath rolls down your neck and into your shirt, rocking a shiver through your body that has Ben sitting up quickly. You blink at him as he uses his bare hands to wipe quickly at his chin and mouth, breathing ragged like he’d been holding his breath for too long.

He does something you've never seen before and leaves you blanched. Stained fingers are sucked between swollen lips, tongue dragging along and between his fingers for whatever of your precious life force remains upon his skin, particles you can't even discern anymore. It feels like something you aren’t supposed to see, and you’ve never seen Ben so debauched after a feeding. Whether it’s from blood loss or arousal, your head spins and your heart starts pounding a little faster as Ben’s full lips mold to each finger and the palm of his hand, eyes heavy as he glances down at each digit for a thorough examination, breathing heavy through his nose when he pops them back into his mouth for another suck.

Ben freezes. He casts you a wide-eyed glance that you return, and that mirror-like silvery reflection in his pupils flashes out at you briefly in the low glow of the light coming from your kitchen. A pinky is extracted from between his full lips with a wet suck, your eyes glancing between his mouth and his eyes as he watches you watch him.

Ben stands, and you quickly shuffle your legs up and out of his lap to curl in on yourself. You try and sit up, but the room spins, your skin flushes hot, and your heart beats heavier against your ribs. Ben’s hand on your shoulder urges you to lie back.

“I apologize. I was...careless,” he murmurs, removing his touch from you as quickly as he’d moved to push you back.

Careless? He’s been anything but careless in the whole year you’ve known him.

“O-Okay?” You peer up at him through blurry vision, back flat against the cushions. "What does that mean?"

You hear him sigh and then the click of his shoes through your house. You find that you don’t have any energy to care, digging your fingers into your eyes as a headache sets in, handkerchief more wet than not beneath your fingers.

Something thunks gently against your coffee table. “Drink water. I'll order you something to eat, as usual, and make sure to eat it all. I’ll see you soon.” Seconds later, the creak of your front door opening and closing is the last thing you hear before you’re left in a ringing silence.

Usually his impersonal handling doesn’t bother you, but then again he’s never made your head spin or lie you down on your couch over his lap before he drinks your blood. It's been a long time since a feeding has been so confusing and stressful. You sniff as sudden tears prick your eyes, opening them and squinting at your coffee table.

A tall glass of orange juice sits waiting for you beside an excessively large wad of cash and a folded up kitchen towel. Something clenches in your throat, and you feel ridiculous and absolutely appalled that the sight of it makes you cry.

**Author's Note:**

> apologies for any mistakes, i edit my own work. please let me know what you think! kudos/comments are always great!
> 
> follow me on tumblr @ saetyrn9


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